


Still frames

by Hermit9



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Case Fic, Dark, Gen, Medical Experimentation, Original Character(s), bad things happening to kids (off camera), supernaturalpromptchallenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8267327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: Sam paused as he entered the war room, trying to gauge his brother’s mood. It was hard on the best of days since Dean had gotten the mark. It had become even harder since they had built the pyre for Charlie. Dean would sit there, staring into the middle-distance, with a permanent scowl. Sometimes these moods would last for hours, the only movement the mild itching of his arm where the mark burned red, looking like an infected wound. “So, uh, I think I found us something?”“A hunt?” Dean’s answer was a grunt, he didn’t move, his eyes not pulling away from whatever figment he was picturing.****Set in season 10 between “Dark Dynasty” and “The Prisoner”





	

**Author's Note:**

> SPN Prompt Challenge  
> Month :October 2016 (Horror)  
> {PROMPT} - Blood
> 
> Seriously darker than my usual fare. You’ve been warned ;) 
> 
> Thanks to [Pimento](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento) for beta-ing this one!

Sam paused as he entered the war room, trying to gauge his brother’s mood. It was hard on the best of days since Dean had gotten the mark. It had become even harder since they had built the pyre for Charlie. Dean would sit there, staring into the middle-distance, with a permanent scowl. Sometimes these moods would last for hours, the only movement the mild itching of his arm where the mark burned red, looking like an infected wound. 

“So, uh, I think I found us something?”

“A hunt?” Dean’s answer was a grunt, he didn’t move, his eyes not pulling away from whatever figment he was picturing.

“Well, maybe…” Sam paused. “I received a hit on one of the searches Cha...” he stopped in his tracks at the death glare leveled at him. Still not allowed to say her name. “A search _her majesty_ sent my way”. That won him half a smile and nod. Good enough.

“Ahem. Three victims. Vivisected. I’ll spare you the pictures. One sixteen year old girl, one twenty-five year old man. And a six year old kid.”

“Ok, gross, but is it one of ours?”

“The thing that triggered the search was in the police report. All of the victims had in their possession a black metal case containing pictures of other people in the same kind of, err, shape.”

“So?”

Sam turned the laptop towards Dean, pointing at the picture from the police evidence. The metal box was rectangular and the metal was thin and dented. But the crest on it, in a darker matte black, was still distinguishable. A double-headed eagle holding a shield with a modified templar’s cross.

“ _Stynes_. Where was this?”

“Seattle.” 

“Let’s go. If we haul ass we can make it there for tomorrow.”

The drive was long, even taking turns and sleeping as much as possible on the way. But as the miles vanished behind them some of the tension settled. It didn’t go away, not quite, but they could do this. They could hunt and be efficient even if they were not quite in sync in other spheres. The hunt was comforting, like the world’s most twisted security blanket.

It was raining in Seattle when they pulled in, a lazy dribble of tired rain. Everything so saturated with water that the entire city seemed to shrug and bear it in contempt. The motel was overpriced but just as cramped and grimy as the usual. They split up to work the case, still, after all these years, somewhat impressed by how easily the local law enforcement seemed to give up their intel. How relieved some of them looked that the weird case was being taken out of their hands. They met back at the motel over greasy burgers and strong coffee as the night crowd started taking over the city.

“Didn’t get much from the morgue. The ME didn’t do an autopsy as much as comment on what was already done. Whoever did this was good. Had skills with that scalpel.” Dean shoveled a few fries in his mouth as he spoke. It wasn’t clear if the skill assessment was the medical examiner’s or his.

“Good at hiding their tracks too. Nothing left behind on the scenes that they could use for forensic. The last victim was found by a civilian, however, one Nastya Lysenko, so we might have a witness.”

“Might? What, did she _maybe_ see something?”

“She’s been locked in the psych ward of the West Seattle hospital since that night. She called the cop and told them where to find the body.” Sam leafed through his notes as he spoke.

“Last victim was the kid?”

“Yeah. From what the cops told me she was sitting next to her, running her hand through her hair and singing some kind of lullaby. Spooked them out. And then she freaked out when the EMT tried to move her and she put two of them and three cops in the hospital.”

“Great. Our only lead is a nutcase.” Dean groaned and ran a hand over his face. 

“Well, maybe not,” Sam said after a beat, crumbling the wrappers and throwing them into the garbage pail across the room. “The only thing she’s asked for in the ward is a pair of gloves. And salt. Lots and lots of salt.” 

***  
The psych ward of the West Seattle Hospital turned out to be a sad affair of light grey corridors and locked doors, smelling of stale sweat and chemical disinfectant. It made Sam itchy, part of him expecting the loud firecracker sounds of a bored Lucifer just beyond his field of perception. He kept rubbing his hand, even though the angels had healed that scar a long time ago. He wondered sometimes if it had been Cas or Gadreel taking that anchor from him, unaware of what it meant. He wondered which one he wanted as an answer.

Dean was looking around with curiosity, perhaps thinking of Anna, who had heard the angels and been confined in a similar location. Or maybe of Martin, calling them to ask a favor and the fevered dreams the wraith had induced in both of them. It was ironic, that Dean now carried the rage, and Sam was the one unsure he could trust his instinct. Same song, just dancing different positions.

The nurse led them to a solitary room, padded walls that were once white but now were worn and stained by endless cohorts of patients. 

“We tried putting her in a shared room, but it didn’t work out. Same for visits in the commons. She’s not dangerous, but she reacts badly to any kind of touch, so keep your distance officers.”

They both nodded and she unlocked the door. 

“An orderly will stay right here. Knock when you need to be let out.”

They stepped in and the door was locked behind them. The girl was sitting on the ground, leaning against the far wall. Her hair was pure white, framing her face and reaching just below her collarbone. Her skin was pale as if the colour had been leached away from it, even her lips looked bloodless. Combined with the white hospital scrubs and the pearl colored satin opera length gloves she looked like she was trying to blend into her surroundings. Her eyes were gray, alert and clearly assessing them.

“Be careful. If they think you believe me, they won’t let you leave here.”

“Should we believe you?” Dean sustained her gaze, challenging.

“I’m not insane. But you already knew that. And I know who you are, so spare me the cover story.”

“You do?” Dean straightened a bit, his hand blindly reaching for the gun that should have been at the small of his back. He felt naked without its weight. 

“You’re the Winchesters. Everyone knows who you are. And even if I didn’t know your faces, that thing you are carrying is screaming loud enough that there would be little doubt.”

“You can hear it?” His voice was strained and he ignored Sam’s calming gestures.

“It’s angry. And hungry. And sad” She shrugged. “It makes my skin crawl and you’re across the room. It’d probably break me any closer. But I think you’d want to know what I know before it comes to that.”

“Yes. We do.” Sam intervened, trying to smooth things out. “Miss Lysenko, can you tell us what happened?”

“Don’t call me _that_.” she turned her attention to Sam, letting the hair fall over her eyes, blocking the sight of Dean. “I thought I was strong enough to outsmart it.”

“It?”

“The curse.”

“What curse?” Dean said, but before he could get himself anymore worked up Sam interrupted him with a hand on his arm.

“How about you start from the beginning?”

She laughed. It was dry and without humor, like the bark of a caged animal.

“The beginning was lost to me. But I can tell you enough.” She gathered her knees to her chest, resting her chin on top of them.

“The boxes, and the pictures. They carry a curse. I started being aware of them a year ago. Looking at the pictures, it marks you as a potential target, somehow. Maybe like a locator beacon. It’s how they find more. I started gathering the boxes. And burying them in salt.”

“Why?” Dean asked.

“Because salt purifies. I couldn’t kill the one who cast the curse but I tried to weaken the thing so that I could open the boxes. I kept them in salt for months ; until the whispers faded and I thought it was safe.”

“Why open the boxes?” Sam, this time.

“Because the people whose pictures are in them have families. Mothers. Fathers. Children. _Lovers_.” There was bitterness on the last word. “Each box has one or more set of pictures, from the day they were taken to the day they died. I thought I could identify them and bring closure to the families.”

“The curse wasn’t broken?” Dean, gritting his teeth, but the aggression wasn’t directed towards her anymore.

“No. Just weakened enough to lull me into stupidity. They tracked me down. Took Gaëlle to punish me for meddling.”

“She was yours?” Dean again, but his voice was growing softer.

“Not by blood. But in the ways that counted yes. And I couldn’t save her.” Her eyes were cold flint, with no tears. 

“Do know who did that to her?” Sam shifted to get his notebook.

“I don’t know _who_. But I tracked down _where_.” She raised her head now, with a predatory smile, no warmth in it at all. “And I will tell you if you promise to burn it all down.”

***  
The where, it turns out, was a suburb of Seattle some 35 miles to the south. It clung to its quaint country charm, fighting the encroachment from the larger cities as people fled towards cheaper housing and “manageable commute.” At least the motel room was a more acceptable price, as they waited for nightfall.

The location Nastya had given them turned out to be a large historical estate, complete with the immaculate grounds and wrought iron fence. It was the last property at the end of a cul-de-sac, but even that didn’t seem to explain the lack of activity. None of the surrounding houses had had any movement as Sam and Dean staked out the grounds. There was no light, no cars, no drive-by traffic. As if the entire street had been abandoned. Sam startled when he heard Dean’s sharp whistle, then started jogging towards him. Dean was crouching near one of the houses closer to the entrance of the cul-de-sac.

“There. Looks familiar.” he pointed at something etched on the foundations of the house.

Sam crouched near him, squinting and trying to make sense of the lines.

“Enochian. Looks like that warding Cas was recommending we put on the car.”

“Yeah, the not-quite-invisible stuff. Makes your eye glance over unless you’re looking for it specifically. There’s some on all the houses.” he waved towards the other shells along the street. “My guess is they want everyone to forget this entire street is here.”

“Private. And not at all suspicious.”

“Oh yes. It’s a _great_ sign.” Dean smirked at his own joke. Sam chuckled, glad to see some humor leaching back into his brother. 

“Guess we go straight for the main house then?” 

“Yeah. let’s hope the welcome committee isn’t too sharp. They’ll be seeing us coming.”

The house was a three story victorian house, clearly well taken care of. The white wooden siding had been recently painted as well as the red trim around the windows and under the eaves. It was also utterly silent, no electric hum, no sign of habitation. The watery gurgle of the nearby Puget Sound serving as the only soundtrack. 

The front door was locked, but that hadn’t been an issue for either of them in decades. The lock was modern, and it took a few minutes and choice words for Dean to rake it open. The inside of the house was clean, if dark, neither of them felt like fiddling with the antique gas lamps lining the walls. Sam caught Dean’s eye and pointed upstairs, moving silently towards the second floor while his brother started checking the ground floor. Under the moving beams of their flashlight the house was impeccably clean, the hardwood floors varnished and spotless. The beds were immaculately made, but the closets and dressers were empty. He met back with Dean in the foyer.

“Nothing.”

“Less than nothing. That kitchen is so clean it looks like it came out of a box this morning.”

“Basement?”

“If _I_ was a sadistic bastard that’s where I’d be” muttered Dean. 

The basement door was secured with an electronic lock, but the door itself was brittle wood and gave way with a few well-placed kicks. Electric lights were inset in the walls, the first obvious sign of modern technology in the house. Dean found the switch and the neon bulbs slowly turned on. Sam frowned, the stairs down were wooden, but there were some deeply ingrained bloodstains in them. The landing of the stairs was a vestibule, with empty lockers and a few stained lab coats hanging from hooks. Dean took point again, opening the door to the basement proper, a vast open space set up like an infirmary. Five hospital beds lined the room with the bay closest to the door being used for a desk and a series of refrigerators.

“What the hell?” Dean muttered, shifting out of his shooting stance and putting his pistol away.

“Check the beds?” said Sam, moving toward the desk. There was a pile of shredded documents in a paper basket. Nothing readable without spending time he did not have to glue back together the strips of paper.

“The beds have restraints. The good kind,” said Dean from across the room. “Whoever was in these beds fought hard to get out of them.” 

Sam moved towards the refrigerators, trying to figure out what had been done here. 

“Yeah? Can you see any I.V. rigs?”

“Yup. one per bed. Why?”

“Because I have a lot, and I mean a lot of blood bags here.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean said as he crossed back to Sam, looking over his shoulder.

“And labeled too… Werewolf, fairy, vampire, siren,” Sam shuddered and wiped his hand nervously against his shirt. “Demon…”

“Ok, so what are they…” Dean trailed off. “They were trying to see what happens when you put that shit in a regular human. The victims had been, what’s the word you used?”

“Vivisected.”

“Yeah, yeah, that. So they were cut up alive - because they were trying to see what the blood was doing to them.”

He stopped talking suddenly, head jerking up. 

“Did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Sounded like… crying? Coming from the back?”

He padded silently towards the back of the room, trying to make as little noise as possible so that he could pinpoint the sound. 

“Here. Trap door.”

They opened the hatch and Sam staggered back, as the smell and the sight both hit him. There was maybe twenty of them, though he was pretty sure the two little ones on the far right - limbs tangled as they clung to each other on the floor - were no longer breathing. Street kids, thin and pale, shivering, covered in their own sweat and strips of bloodied rags. The kids looked at the hunters, as they stood above the hatch, but made no move to approach, or escape. Red and gold-rimmed eyes, flashes of fangs, of scales, Sam was having trouble evaluating them, his gaze kept jumping all over, catching pieces that would never fit to form a whole. One of the girls was crying, the tears glowing with the sickly light of bioluminescent deep-sea fish as they fell to the floor. He took a step back, desperately trying to breathe through the steel ball in his throat, convinced all the oxygen in the room had been sucked out. 

“Sammy.”

He felt Dean’s hands on his face, narrowing his field of vision, making him focus.

“Sammy, go outside.”

“No. I…”

“Go outside. This isn’t Madison. You don’t have to do this. I wish it could have been me back then. Let me do this for you, now.”

“But. No, Dean, I can’t let you…”

“It’s ok. Wait outside. I’ll be right out.”

The smoke of house fires is always darker, man-made materials burning with a chemical stench. Sam leaned against the Impala, watching the flames as they licked and roared around the house, fed by the generous dousing of gasoline. He tried to block out the sounds of Dean as he used most of their holy water stock to rinse the worst of it from his hands and arms. They’d have to make more once they got back to the bunker. The car dipped as Dean joined him, idly patting the waxed surface of the hood as he did. He was calmer, sated, more of himself in his eyes and less of the mark on the surface. They watched the flames in silence until the sirens of the firefighters reached them. Dean reached to squeeze Sam’s shoulder in silent command and they both piled into the car, leaving before the authorities arrived. There would be nothing to find, anyways.

“Now. You’re going to help my find these sick sons of bitches.”


End file.
